Writing by Rhys Clark

1.1.2

II. The Sentence

Foggy didn’t offer sympathy. Instead, he handed Oryn a small, clouded glass filled with a separation of two distinct liquids. One was a murky gold, the other a translucent silver.

“Drink it,” Foggy commanded. “Slowly. It’ll dull the pain.”

Oryn downed the contents. It was ice-cold and tasted sharply of citrus and copper. Almost immediately, the frantic throbbing in his hand settled into a dull, manageable ache.

Foggy rolled his eyes at the ignoring of his advice to drink it slowly and pulled on a pair of thick, reinforced leather gloves. For several long minutes, he inspected the cursed hand in total silence. He moved with the clinical detachedness of a man examining a broken machine. He turned Oryn’s hand over, massaged the stiff joints, and traced the blue veins that were now visible beneath the skin. Finally, he held the hand up to the flickering lamp, peering through his magnifying lens as if trying to see the bone beneath the bruise.

“The object that did this,” Foggy said, his voice unusually tight. “Where is it?”

“Sealed in a crate in my personal lock-up,” Oryn replied. “No one can get to it but me.”

“Keep it that way.” Foggy pushed the lens up onto his forehead and sighed. He looked older than he had ten minutes ago. “I’m sorry to tell you this, old friend, but you’re in trouble. You aren’t going to drop dead tomorrow, but let’s be clear: this curse will kill you.”

The words had been expected, but the blow took Oryn’s breath away regardless. For a few moments, the room seemed to tilt. The smell of vinegar and old paper became overwhelming, and the flickering lamp felt like a sun.

Foggy seemed to appreciate the weight of the silence. He didn’t offer hollow platitudes. He simply stood up, crossed to a heavy iron-bound cabinet, and pulled out a bottle of dark amber spirit and two heavy-bottomed glasses. He poured a generous measure for both of them before returning to the table.

“Alright,” Oryn said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat and took a steadying breath. “What do I do from here? How did this happen?”

“First,” Foggy said, sliding a glass across the workbench, “you’re going to tell me everything. From the moment you found that relic to the moment you walked through my door.”

Oryn stared into his drink, the memories bubbling up like silt in a disturbed pond.

“It was a deep dig,” Oryn began. “Three levels down, near the Western Flat. We found a chamber that shouldn’t have been there. In the center was a relic—black metal, smoother than glass, but heavy. It was covered in these… lined markings. Intricate. It didn’t feel cursed. No heat, no hum, no  residue. I thought it was just a high-grade navigational tool.”

He looked down at his hand. 

“I brought it back to the lab to clean it. The moment I touched it with my bare hand, it hit me. It felt like a massive surge of current, a powerful electric shock that threw me across the room. The artifact glowed a brilliant blue for a second, then went dormant. Just a piece of cold metal again.”

He described the timeline: the initial numbness, the way the blue tinge appeared the next morning like a spreading ink stain, and the failed attempts at using common village charms to break it.

Foggy listened, his expression grim by the time Oryn had finished his story. 

“Strong curses like this are like a viral strain of magic, Oryn. Every one is unique, a mutation of whatever intent was left in the relic. I can’t tell you there’s a cure, because I’ve never seen this kind of curse before, and there isn’t a lot of recorded studies that I can access.”

“But there has to be something,” Oryn insisted.

“Maybe… but you won’t find it in Vanea. If a remedy exists, it’s in Kallista.”

Oryn slumped back in his chair. “Kallista? That’s a long journey, Foggy. Even for a man with two good hands.”

“It’s a pilgrimage,” Foggy corrected. “The most efficient path to the coast of Kestos will take months. You’ll have to sail across the Divide, and even then, Kallista is on the far northern spires. It’s the other side of the world.”

Oryn sighed.

“You called it a virus,” Oryn said, trying to focus on the mechanics rather than the distance. “What is it actually doing to me?”

Foggy took a long pull from his glass. “I know the boys in the Trace Line think I’m an insane genius, but that’s only half-right. I’m no genius… Blue Curses are rare. They’re… they’re a fundamental overload…”

“Overload? Of what?”.”

“It’s effectively a surge. Your body was hit with a concentrated amount of ancient magic it wasn’t designed to process. Your body is trying to break it down, but it’s like trying to drain a lake with a thimble. The blue, you see? That’s your own life-force fighting a war it’s losing. And here is the hard part, Oryn: the more you use your own magic—even the small stuff like guiding a vibration dig—the quicker it will consume you.”

“Consume me?” Oryn whispered.

“Yes. You’re feeding the fire. Every time you channel your own energy, the curse hitches a ride on your neural pathways. It spreads further. It turns your own power into a toxin. Your body will eventually lose the fight.”

“So I’m supposed to just… stop? Stop working? Or doing anything? Why do I have to lose the fight?” Oryn’s voice rose with a hint of defiance. “I’m not just going to sit in a chair in Siv and wait to die..”

“It’s not a matter of strength, so mind your ego, Oryn,” Foggy said sharply. “It’s a matter of biology. We are humans. Our frames have limits. We cannot withstand that level of concentrated magic forever. It’s toxic to us. That is how it gets you.”

Oryn looked at the bolt on the door. He thought of Cassa at home, and how the boys were always asking for treasure these days when he got home. He thought of the Trace Line and the men who relied on him for their paychecks. If he stayed here, he would become a ghost. A slow-fading light in a dusty village. He couldn’t just allow his body to slowly break down and die in front of everyone he loved and respected. If there was a chance – however slim – of him being able to find a cure on the other side of the world, he had to take it. He would have to lose a year with his family so that when he returned, he could have a lifetime.

“I have to leave,” Oryn said, more to himself than to Foggy. “I have to leave before they have to watch me start to disappear.”

“Listen,” Foggy responded, after a moment of silence, “This is a blow, I understand. Your mind needs time to process this. Go home, rest and think about it. I can’t tell you what decision is best for you, but don’t make one yet. A well rested mind is the best for decision making. And this is one hell of a decision you need to make, Oryn.”

“I know, Foggy. And thanks – for everything. How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. I think a death sentence is enough of a fee,” Foggy said, with a daring smirk, “And take this with you, for the pain later..”

Foggy handed Oryn two vials with the liquids he had mixed together earlier. Oryn took them and slipped them into his inside pocket.

Oryn grinned back, “Take care, old man.”

© 2026 Rhys Clark. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form, including scraping for AI training or large language models, without the prior written permission of the author.